


Taxonomy

by TheHighestPie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Sexism, Warning: indelicate discussion of deformed animal fetuses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHighestPie/pseuds/TheHighestPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre studies (and occasionally "studies") the women who come to the free public science lectures at the Jardin des plantes. How does he react to the appearance of a seemingly unique specimen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taxonomy

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excuse to air my headcanon that Combeferre liked to sometimes pick up chicks at the free public science lectures at the Jardin des plantes. It’s inspired by the fact that it’s how Condorcet’s widow Sophie met her post-Revolution lover.
> 
> Lisette Duras is my attempt to create a fun but believable OC. Hopefully she has enough little twists to her to keep readers on their toes without straying into Suzette territory. I tried to imagine someone Cosette-like, if Cosette had been allowed to grow up as a normal girl of her adopted social class.
> 
> Note the warning about the deformed animal fetuses? The tone of the conversation isn't meant to be politically correct so could potentially come across as ableist.

A careful student of the women of Paris could, if he considered himself a second Linnaeus, set himself to the task of classifying them under a system of scientific orders.  Any newly transplanted provincial boy could see at a glance their various families: the beggar, the grisette, the bourgeoise, the lady.  A more trained eye, however, could begin to see the subdivisions of their various genera (the grisette of the café and the grisette of the dance hall, or the merchant bourgeoise and the civil bourgeoise), each with her own niche to fill in the Parisian biosphere.

The particular species of women whom Combeferre knew best (and who best knew Combeferre) were those who frequented the free public lectures given by the Muséum at the Jardin des plantes.  Among them were two distinct species.  First: the serious listeners who dressed in studiously plain clothes, sat perfectly still, never looked at the men around them, and left with sheets covered with notes.  Second: the brightly beribboned creatures who came not to study natural philosophy but rather the long benches of promising young natural philosophers, physicians, and Polytechnicians with the hopes of snagging one of their own.  These two species presented quite the interesting array of selection for the rows of distractible students, and the elaborate mating dances that begun as soon as the day’s lecturer closed up his notes would be worthy of any naturalist’s study.

When the busty, brown-haired cloud of lace and flounces showed up one afternoon, there could be little doubt as to which species she belonged.

With her alarmingly pink dress, she took up twice as much space as any of the other women, and her leg-of-mutton sleeves seemed perpetually in danger of knocking over all inkwells in the vicinity.  The unfortunate young man behind her had his view of the lectern partially obscured by the plumes erupting from her straw hat.  The gentleman (known to Combeferre as an aspiring botanist of only middling talent) however could not bring himself to complain, for half of the auditorium was busy shooting him jealous glares, that he could best of all smell her rosy perfume.  She did not pretend to write down a single word, but coquettishly kept her gaze forward for the entire hour.  When the presentation on the pollination of orchids had concluded, the lecturer and the plain women around the newcomer gave her unpleasant looks and fled, while a good dozen men began a surreptitious stampede towards the door where she was most likely to exit.  Combeferre sighed at her for having scared off the little redheaded prospect he had been eyeing, then made his way towards the far exit, away from the preening mob.

To the surprise of all, the next week she returned, this time done up in a lilac and yellow ensemble, complete with a hat covered in silk orchids.  Seeing her evidently unclaimed, this time the swarm of suitors was half again as large.  Combeferre bolted in the other direction in an at last successful attempt to head off his redhead.  They spent a few pleasant hours strolling through the rows of botanical specimens, but they parted ways with no promise of a future rendezvous.

The redhead only appeared intermittently after that, but the lace-creature soon became something of a fixture – to the wide-eyed surprise of each new lecturer.  When François Cuvier appeared, he looked ready to drop his samples at the sight of her, then (if Combeferre was interpreting his expression correctly) seemed to consider ordering her out, but his forbearance was well rewarded.  She approached him after the talk and they appeared to exchange a few polite words over the delicate skeleton of a South American cat.  Very curious indeed.

And then Geoffroy – his place on the circuit immediately after Cuvier doubtless orchestrated – began his series on fetal deformities.

For the past few years, Cuvier’s great rival had been developing a fascination (or an over-fascination, as some might say) with teratology, the study of nature’s poor, malformed monsters.  As he took the podium, oversized jars of ghastly fetuses ranged before him, he preached on what these freaks of birth might reveal about the structure of nature, and the transformation of species over time.

The subject was fascinating, but delicate.  When the first results of catastrophic pregnancies where unveiled, several of the ladies in the room pressed their handkerchiefs to their mouths and quickly excused themselves.  Some of the male students also turned green, but stayed resolutely in their seats, unwilling to retreat with the women (whose repulsion at the thought of giving birth to a four-armed, brainless child was nothing if not understandable).

By some polite understanding, most of the women did not appear the next week, allowing questions about the bovine reproductive organs to be discussed with greater freedom and fewer awkward blushes.  Those who remained were subject to a constant stream of uncomfortable glances, and left with the knowledge that their presence was unappreciated in the room until Geoffroy had finished with his gruesome parade of monsters.

All, except the brilliant cloud of ribbons and lace, who stubbornly took a seat in the front row the next week.

Combeferre had begun to hear some mutterings against her: “It’s well and good for her to brighten up the auditorium for a lecture or two, but if she’s not going to declare for a suitor, then what’s the point?  She’s become a distraction.”  Combeferre had no opinion one way or the other, but paid her extra scrutiny now that she was the only female left in the room.  Did she have a goal in mind, or was she simply that intrigued by natural philosophy?  Her still face and still hands through Geoffroy’s final presentation betrayed nothing of her emotions – neither boredom, nor disgust, nor fascination.  To Combeferre, that alone was as compelling as Geoffroy’s notes on transformism and the conditions in the uterus.  She applauded politely with the rest once Geoffroy had finished, and nodded when he announced that the next week’s lecture would return to the more tasteful territory of bird flight.

That had to be a relief for her, Combeferre thought as he packed up his notes, to know that her sister-listeners could comfortably return for the next lecture.  He wondered how well the ladies knew each other – if they communicated between the lessons, or if they merely sat together each week out of convention.

“Monsieur?” A small hand brushed against his arm.  He turned.  It was her, waiting for him just outside the door.

“Mademoiselle!” he started and ducked out of the flow of exiting students.  “Euh…good afternoon.  I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“But you’ve seen me.”  She gave him a knowing look.  “I’ve seen you watching me during the lectures.”

He instantly flushed.  “Forgive me, Mademoiselle!  I did not mean to give offense!”

Her smile grew.  “None was taken.  I know that I am the most unique specimen in the room.”

There was no response to that which would not sound boorish.  He stammered and swept off his hat to buy time.  “And I am one of the least remarkable, but my name, if you wish it, is Combeferre.”

“A pleasure, M. Combeferre.  And I am Lisette Duras.  Walk with me?”

He blinked, trying to ignore the incredulous stares their exchange was garnering from the others leaving the lecture.  But he could not refuse her, and his curiosity was well piqued.  “The pleasure is all mine, Mlle Duras.”  He extended his forearm for her to hold.

They strolled in straight-backed silence away from the crowd, down the southernmost pathway, paralleling the Rue Buffon.  Combeferre had long held a special fondness for this quietly bustling part of the garden, with the near-Gothic vault of the filigreed tree branches overhead.  The dappled sunlight through the leaves was lovely on Mlle Duras’ smooth face – even if the effect was somewhat spoiled by the eruption of ribbons coming from her oversized hat.

He considered making small talk – to ask of her family, her other pursuits – but his interest to see what sort of brain was under that bonnet won out.  If his directness offended her, then he would not regret losing her company as soon as could be considered polite.

“Well, Mlle Duras,” he began cautiously, “what has been your favorite lecture so far?”

“So you do have a tongue!  The orchids, without a doubt!  Perhaps my memories are colored by the excitement of my first lecture, but even then, I love flowers.  That’s why I came to the Jardin des plantes in the first place, to spend time among them.  And then I discovered that I could easily learn more about them, just by passing the odd hour in a lecture hall.  I keep a garden of my own at home in Lisieux.  How much more will I appreciate my little roses now that I understand pollination!  Perhaps I will convince my father to buy me some bees.”

“Plants are rewardingly complex, and botany is a lovely, genteel subject.”

“Oh?  Genteel?”

“Plants are…cleaner than animals.  They are easier to collect, and not so given to unpleasantness.”

“I sense you are implying a question, M. Combeferre.”  He tried not to cringe; so much for tact.  “Animals are unpleasant, and half-formed animals the most unpleasant of all?”

“Plants have long been considered a suitable subject of study for ladies.  I even have a book of scientific illustrations of North American flowers by a certain Jane Colden.”

“Some women may become botanists, but many more become mothers.”

“Mademoiselle?”

“I particularly enjoy flowers, but take pleasure in all new things, and as for my mulish presence the past weeks…pregnancy is rarely discussed in polite company, even between mothers and daughters except in half-metaphors.  As I am sure I am soon to be betrothed, I wish to be informed about the dangers of motherhood – even if refusing to bear children is practically inconceivable.  Plus, it entertained me to see the panic on Geoffroy’s face whenever he mentioned reproductive organs in my presence.”

“Disasters of birth like the ones we have seen are exceedingly rare, Mademoiselle,” he tried to reassure her, and won only a pitying look.  “….as I am sure you know.”

“I’m no paranoid, M. Combeferre.  Just curious, even if my curiosity occasionally strays into the macabre.”

“Why do you not take notes?” he blurted.  “If you are so engrossed in the lectures, then why do you keep no record of them?”

“I can see paper whenever I want, but it is only for a few minutes that I have our lecturers’ specimens before me.  If there is anything worth committing to paper, then it should be memorable enough to stay with me until I return to my rooms.  It always confuses me that you medical types insist on squinting at your pens and only shoot quick glances at the presentation.”

“I’m afraid you have me there, Mademoiselle.”

She hummed in assent.  “So I was correct that you’ve been watching me with some interest.”

He could only reply with another stammer.

“Don’t worry.  I’ve also been observing you; that’s why I hoped to speak.  Do you realize that you are perhaps the only young gentleman in the audience who looks at me with neither hopefulness nor hostility?”

“I…am happy to have come across as gracious, even though we have never spoken,” he offered in response.

She hummed again.  “I was wondering what makes you different from the rest, why you did not attempt to pursue me even though you were clearly intrigued.”

“I –”

“No, wait.  Let me guess.  Having learned something of Linnaeus, I am developing a careful classification system of the young men of Paris, and I want to see if I can place your species.”

Combeferre gaped at her.

“You’re clearly one of the medical breed, your frantic note-taking says as much.”

He closed his mouth and inclined his head in confirmation.

“Good.  But there’s something else about you.  You don’t have a fraction of the medical student’s sense of fun, that much is clear.  Now, it could be that you’re more pious than the rest of them – a few years in the seminary, perhaps, before your family demanded heirs of you? – but no, you don’t have the sanctimoniousness about you.”

“A priest!” he barked.  “Hardly!  ‘Brother’ is a word I reserve for comrades, not monks.”

She gave an exclamation of delight.  “Aha!  I knew it!  You’re a political one!  Elise will be so pleased that I was right.”

“Come again?”

“Hélène and I had a gentlemen’s bet going on over you and a few others, and Elise wisely sided with me.  I can’t wait to tell her.  But wait!  Do you have a journal or pamphlet that I could steal for the week as proof?  I couldn’t stand to have Hélène call me a liar.”

“Heaven forbid that I remain a point of contention.”  He released her arm to fish the latest print of _L’Organisateur_ out of his satchel.  “This is Saint-Simonian, not precisely my own view, but –”

“Yes, that should do splendidly, thank you.  I’ll return it next week.”

“It’s all yours, Mademoiselle.  But how…?”

“Combine the intern and the pamphleteer and you will get a man either twice as dour or twice as merry as either one on his own,” she preened.  “I could tell from your manner that you have opinions.”

“That’s a mild way of putting my politics, but yes.  Do you wish to discuss them?”

“Not in particular, no.  I should go, and I think your friend wants to speak to you.  At least, I hope he’s your friend, what with how intently he’s been watching us from behind his journal for the last minute.  I suppose he thinks he’s being subtle.”

She glanced over to a nearby bench.  Upon it was indeed a man with a journal, and over the top of that journal was the face of Courfeyrac, whose eyes looked about to tumble out of his skull.

“Oh, I know him.”  He raised his voice slightly.  “He’s a loafer with far too keen a nose for other people’s business.  I’m sure he means no harm, but give me leave and I’ll show you just how forceful my opinions can be.”

“Please, M. Combeferre, there’s no need.  I trust that he is harmless,” she shot Courfeyrac another look and lowered her voice conspiratorially, “and a not-unattractive sort of harmless at that.”

This was not a conversation he wished to have.  “Until next time, Mlle Duras?”

“Good day, Monsieur.”  She flourished the journal.  “And thank you for the proof.”

“It has been my pleasure.  Should you ever wish to discuss botany or anatomy…”

“ _Anatomy_ , Monsieur?” she said in a faux-scandalized tone.  “Is that a subject for ladies?  And in public, for shame.”

Combeferre made a horrified choking noise, at least winning a laugh from her.

“Farewell.  I will wave you down if ever the lecturer is unfriendly and I seek a point of clarification.”

He gave her a deep bow.  “Farewell, and thank you for your patience with an over-serious pamphleteer.”

As soon as she was at an acceptable distance, he spun on his heel and stalked over to the bench.  “You idiot, Courfeyrac!  What do you think you were doing?”

Courfeyrac quirked an unrepentant eyebrow.  “I could ask you the same!  Weren’t we planning to meet here a full 20 minutes ago?”

“Ah.”

“In your absence – the story of which I await with boundless eagerness – I was peacefully sitting and reading a very lazy article on prison reform when you marched by with _that_ at your elbow.  Who was I to turn my eyes from such a spectacle?”

“I’m sorry for my curtness.  It was unjustified.”

“So?  Who _was_ she, old man?  How on Earth did you grab her?  She doesn’t look your usual sort – too much sunlight, not enough dust.  And does she have a sister?”

“I didn’t grab her.  Quite the opposite, really.  And (though I hesitate to tell you this for fear of your reaction) she’s not my ‘sort’ because she’s not mine at all.  We were just conversing.”

“About what?”

Combeferre hesistated a moment.  “Natural philosophy, and classification.”

“And what class was she?” Courfeyrac asked, prying for her name.  “An Emilie?  Éléonore?  Henriette?”

“A unique breed, I thought at first.  I thought that her plumage didn’t quite match the shape of her wings.  But on further reflection…perhaps not such a rare bird after all.  I will need to pay better attention to the data before my eyes.”


End file.
